


Five Times Theron Has A Drink with The Wrath

by the eternal feminine (redpenninja)



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Bromance, Cross Faction Friendship, Developing Friendships, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Knights of the Fallen Empire Spoilers, One Shot Collection, Shadow of Revan, Trust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-21 05:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11350656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpenninja/pseuds/the%20eternal%20feminine
Summary: And one time he doesn't.





	1. A Farewell to Arms

The Emperor’s Wrath isn’t in a good mood. Theron doesn’t hold it against him; he’d be in a bad mood too if he’d been nearly drowned and knocked around by some Revanite experiment at the bottom of the ocean. But still—the air around him crackles with disapproval and danger, and what little connection Theron has to the Force warns him to stay away. So he does while Lana patches up the nasty gash running down the Wrath’s left arm and the smattering of new bruises on his ribs.

The Wrath relaxes as much as a Sith can under Lana’s touch, leaning back on his hands as he perches on the top of the desk and laughing under his beard. He has golden hair, the Wrath, not as platinum as Lana’s but a warm, sandy color that takes away from the dark veins that snake around his eyes. His laughter is warm and open, and even from across the room, Theron becomes aware of the shift in the air.

Lana excuses herself to take a call from one of her informants, leaving Theron alone with the Wrath. The thought makes him uneasy at first, but Lana doesn’t want him dead (or so he assumes), so if the Wrath is a potential threat, she never would have left. That’s what he tells himself, anyway, when the Wrath fixes the molten, hawkish stare on him.

“This is the part where I should thank you for saving my life,” the Wrath says. “So…thank you.”

“I did my best,” Theron shrugs. “Those bruises definitely could’ve been worse.”

“I’m aware,” the Wrath says.

He pushes himself off the table and crosses the room. His cloak flutters behind him in typical Sith dramatic flair, settling only when he stops at the refreshment cart on the far wall and picks up a bottle of Manaan wine.

“How about a drink, Shan?”

It’s a stupid idea, but Theron says, “Not like I have anything else to do.”

What’s even more stupid is Theron deciding to come up behind him, right at the Wrath’s shoulder. The taller man whirls around, hand flinching to the hilt of his lightsaber.

“Whoa, whoa! Kriff, sorry, relax,” Theron reaches down for the low-hanging blaster at his side and tosses it to the table behind them. “No weapons. Just a drink.”

“Just a drink,” the Wrath repeats in a hollow voice. He unclips his lightsaber from his belt and places it hard on the table.

The Wrath brushes aside some of the loose hair that falls across his red tattoos on his forehead and pours them each a glass of wine. He toasts Theron without touching glasses and takes a long swig of the sharp, dry red wine. They drink in silence for a while, regarding each other over the rims of their glasses and looking around the empty, clean room.

“This wine is terrible,” the Wrath comments after his final swig. There’s no malice lurking in the air, nothing more than conversational in his tone.

“You said it,” Theron agrees. He takes his last sip and glances conspiratorially at the Wrath. “Want another glass?”

“Oddly…yes.” The Wrath makes a grab for the bottle, but Theron beats him to it.

“Let me pour this time...” Theron trails off, not knowing what to call him outside of ‘my lord Wrath’. He isn’t Lana, though, and he isn’t an Imperial.

“Mexus,” the Wrath says. He holds out his glass. “Anyone I can have a quiet drink with can call me by anything they want.”

Only Sith can afford to have such simple logic, but Theron clinks glasses with him anyway and they lapse back into silence together.


	2. Strange Bedfellows

Naturally Mexus is too good to ready his own ship to leave for Yavin 4 from Rishi, so Theron isn’t surprised when the Wrath catches him by the arm and whirls him around in the middle of the street, steering him toward the cantina rather than to where both the Imperial and Republic ships are docked. He’s still dressed in the rich blues and reds of his pirate’s ensemble, but the sleeves are rolled back and the hat is tucked underneath his arm, threatening to crush it completely.

“You know, we spent a lot of money buying you that outfit,” Theron tells him.

“Is mixing kolto and alcohol a bad idea?” Mexus says, ignoring him.

Theron’s eyes sting as they readjust to the cantina’s dim lighting and smoky interior, needles drilling into the back of his skull. His head still pounds and his ribs still ache, but there hadn’t been time for him to sit around and feel sorry for himself, especially not with Lana shooting him wounded looks every three seconds like it’d been _her_ in the Revanite compound. And, meanwhile, Mexus apparently was also too good to take a moral stance in Lana and Theron’s argument.

“Who said I want to have a drink with you anyway?” Theron wrenches his arm out from Mexus’ grip and leans away from him.

Mexus blinks. “You need to know you can trust me. Consider this an olive branch. Be as angry at Lana as you’d like, but I was in the dark too. That doesn’t change what happened, but I thought you should know.”

“That’s the most you’ve said to me in one go, Wrath.”

A ghost of a smile parts the thick beard and thin, formal lips. “Well, I’d hate for both of us to die a fiery death at Revan’s hands with you thinking you were right about Sith all along.”

They order two beers, Theron pointing Mexus in the direction of some of the darker, better-tasting ales, and retreat to lean against the rickety railing of the back porch. On the streets below, pirates pick fights over whose monkey-lizard is whose, gamblers smoke cigarras and grumble to themselves, and merchants hawk their wares. Theron holds a hand over his eyes to blot out the sun and looks up to the sky, making out the faint line of his mother’s flagship, shimmering silver against arresting blue.

Mexus follows his gaze and clears his throat. “Do you think we will?”

“Will what?”

“Die a fiery death at Revan’s hands?” Mexus throws back a swig of beer. “Of course, I don’t. But I’m open to other theories.”

“Don’t be nice to me just because you want to wash your hands of Lana’s fuck-up,” Theron says in as flat a voice as he can manage. He braves something longer than a sip and his head swims until he blinks it away. “So you can run home to Vette and Willsaam and act like some noble asshole who didn’t completely screw over his sworn enemy.”

“Vette and Jaesa already know I’m a noble asshole,” Mexus says. He doesn’t glance over, only stares at the casual drape of his hands over the railing and the condensation glistening on his beer. “And you’re not exactly my sworn enemy right now. After Yavin 4, however, I might not have the chance to drink in silence with you anymore.”

“You’re feeling sentimental.”

“Two years ago, if anyone had told me I’d be doing this right now, I’d have laughed in their face.”

“Having a drink with me or chasing down Revan?”

Now Mexus actually fixes his steady, orange stare on him. “Yes.”

“Well…” Theron begins. He sighs, offers his beer for Mexus to clink his own with. “Let’s have one more together before we’re enemies again.”

There’s flash of that little smile again and Mexus locks the neck of his bottle around Theron’s. “Well, if that’s the deadline, we can certainly afford more than one.”


	3. Many Happy Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a hint of Sith Warrior/Vette in this one, but I think it's vague enough that it can be interpreted as either close friendship or a romantic relationship. Your call.

Theron walks into the Alliance cantina right as Mexus storms out, head bowed and shoulders hunched. Across the room, Major Pierce’s abashed, caged look locks with Theron, moving his mountainous shoulders in a massive shrug before turning back to his drink. Perhaps against his better judgment, Theron swipes a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar counter and heads off in the direction Mexus had headed.

He finds him standing on the access walkway to the _Sion’s Revenge_ , hands clenched tightly around the railing as he stares at the shadowy outline of his ship. It hasn’t moved since Theron brought it here almost two months ago, but it’s common knowledge around the base that Mexus spends what little free time he has lounging on the ship alone.

“What do you want, Theron?” Mexus says without turning around.

Theron steps up next to him and holds up the bottle of whiskey, the glass glinting in the pale moonlight. “How about a drink, Halaran?”

“Pierce is useless. More so than I remember,” Mexus says without further prompting as soon as the bottle slips into his hand. “Quinn went off on his own, but no one thought to look into it more or figure out where he’d run off to. The others just disappeared, but no one asked for a forwarding address or a new holofrequency.”

“They wanted to start over, maybe.” They’re speaking in generic terms, but Theron knows who they’re talking about.

“Fine, all well and good! I was dead, I get it!” He throws back the bottle, tilting it away from his lips when he finishes his swig with a gasp. “It’s stupid of me to think that Pierce would know where she is. And worse for me to storm out on him. And worse to think that…she hasn’t moved on.”

Theron takes a swig of his own before offering in a hoarse voice, “Come on, Halaran. Vette wouldn’t….”

“I’m dead, Theron,” Mexus says softly. “To her, anyway. She wouldn’t have let herself die with me. She _deserves_ to move on.”

“What is it about you Sith always wanting to play the martyr? Don’t be so dramatic,” Theron says, trying for a joking tone.

“Dramatics have always been my strongest talent,” Mexus echoes his tone. “Vette would tell you the same thing.”

The longing in his voice is so raw, so poignant that it’s almost tangible in the air in front of them. It makes Theron shift where he stands, throwing back another shot just to have something to focus on. This time, though, it hits him all at once, drawing tears to his eyes and flooding his nose with heat. He coughs shudderingly and Mexus claps him on the back, his hand lingering on Theron’s shoulder even after the coughing subsides.

“You’re a good friend, Shan,” Mexus says. “But I need you to do something for me.”

“Depends on what it is.”

Mexus’ smile tints a shade more melancholy. “Don’t dig around looking for her anymore. She’s had enough ghosts for one lifetime.”

They stare back at the outline of Mexus’ ship and pass the bottle back and forth a few more times before Mexus sends himself to bed. Theron lingers on the walkway a while longer, wondering where Mexus’ ghosts end and Vette’s begin.


End file.
